


Falling Happens in More Ways Than One

by OpalizedBone



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluffy, Good Omens Narrative Style, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Narrator God (Good Omens), Sappy, oh my fuckin goddess this is so fluffy, they're both so dumb and so in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 02:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20556941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalizedBone/pseuds/OpalizedBone
Summary: None of this, of course, cancels out the fact that Aziraphale and Crowley were two of the most ridiculously oblivious bastards She had ever created. It took a damn near apocalypse before the two of them finally revealed the depths of their feelings, but perhaps that was all part of Her ineffable plan, anyways.~alternately: aziraphale and crowley are idiots and in love and also really bad at realizing this about the other, until they kiss and it's like "oh we're dumb"





	Falling Happens in More Ways Than One

If you were to ask anyone who knew him, they would say Crowley has fallen once. This is only partially true.

Crowley has fallen twice, or more accurately; twice, and then a few thousand times after that.

His first fall was the one everyone seems to know about: his fall from Heaven, the one that took both a lifetime and a fraction of a second, that stole his halo and painted his wings as dark as the cosmos he once decorated with galaxies. This is the one Crowley talks about frequently, and with ease; his other falls are kept hidden close to his chest.

The first of these many falls occurred nearly six thousand years ago, on top of the stone wall that surrounded Eden. This was the Fall that caused all the others.

“Didn’t you used to have a flaming sword?” Crowley asked the angel, the dove-winged being he‘d slithered up next to in search of a spot of companionship. His name, as I’m sure you all know, was Aziraphale.

“I—ah—“ Aziraphale stuttered, looking away from his molten gaze.

“You did!” Crowley remembered, pleased. “It was flaming like anything, what happened to it?”

At the angel’s embarrassed silence, Crowley had snickered.

“Lost it already, have you?”

“...gave it away.”

“You what?!” Crowley asked, sure he’d heard wrong. Surely this celestial being, this soft white figure amongst the verdant greenery, couldn’t have possibly said what he thought he heard.

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale wailed, anguish in his voice. 

Crowley had nothing to say to that, feeling on the edge of a precipice, watching the play of emotions across the other being’s face as he babbled on about how the girl was already expecting. His own face was a mask of shock, appreciation, awe.

And then, later, the rain came, and Aziraphale shielded him beneath one wing, holy-white and radiant, and Crowley had fallen for a second time, fallen for this being of pure light.

The other falls were similar, interspersed throughout the years spent together, each one dropping Crowley deeper and deeper into the hole he’d made for himself. He tried to stay away, tried to distance himself, took hundred-year naps and drank through enough wine and liquor to fuel an army, but it was never enough. The Arrangement brought them ever closer, closer, forming a strange friendship, a companionship that no one could deny.

Aziraphale’s fall, on the other hand, was slower, but no less magnificent for it. You see, he had dismissed the pull he felt for Crowley over the years as simply his demonic temptations rubbing off on him. With how close the two were, one could hardly blame him for confusing his feelings with temptation...up to a point. 

There was really no denying it, however, when Crowley winced his way across consecrated ground to warn Aziraphale of the bombs, and then saved his precious books to boot. This was the final straw that broke the camel’s back, as it were, and Aziraphale finally saw the light.

None of this, of course, cancelled out the fact that Aziraphale and Crowley were two of the most ridiculously oblivious bastards She had ever created. It took a damn near apocalypse before the two of them finally revealed the depths of their feelings, but perhaps that was all part of Her ineffable plan, anyways.

-

It started out like many nights of theirs started; a bottle of red or three, Aziraphale’s back room, and rambling stories.

“No, y’see, that’s the bloody brilliant thing ‘bout it,” Crowley insisted, slouched on the squishy, tartan-covered couch. “I didn’t even have to _ do _anything, really, and now it does the work for itself.”

“I fail to grasp the _ point _of it, my dear,” Aziraphale frowned into his glass, sitting upright and proper in the armchair at a right angle to the couch. “What in Heaven does Hell get out of cellular telephone...what did you call them? Applications?”

_ “Apps, _Angel,” Crowley corrected him, sitting up and reaching for the wine bottle, only to scowl when he realized they were out. He got up and tottered toward the kitchen (although if anyone asked him, he would swear it was more of a swagger). “And it’s the ads that really get ‘em going. Minute-long ones with no skip buttons, flashing videos, hidden X’s, the works. Even got a commendation for those ones that—that jump around when you try ‘nd close ‘em.”

Aziraphale followed Crowley into the kitchen to continue the conversation, leaning against the counter as Crowley buggered around the cabinets for more wine. He found none, and straightened up with a deep frown.

“Outta booze,” he remarked mournfully.

“We could miracle some up,” Aziraphale pointed out helpfully, and Crowley rolled his head around to look at him, then shrugged nonchalantly.

“Could. Or we could just watch something on the telly.”

“I haven’t got one,” Aziraphale said. Crowley smiled conspiratorially and beckoned him to follow, then made his way back to the couch.

“C’mere, Angel,” Crowley invited, patting the cushion next to him. Aziraphale sat with a faint blush on his cheekbones, watching as Crowley produced a remote from his jacket.

“Really, my dear, I don’t have—“

“Hang on, Angel, just watch,” Crowley shushed him, and snapped his fingers. A stack of books on the table against the far wall relocated to another corner, followed by a few other stacks. Hidden behind them was a brand new flatscreen, sleek and chrome, obviously entirely Crowley’s doing.

“How long has that been here?” Aziraphale asked, astonished. Crowley shrugged.

“I got bored the other night, so…” he gestured expansively at the TV. He was just the right amount of buzzed, loose-limbed and sprawling, relaxed and unbothered by the fact that he was sinking slowly towards Aziraphale on the couch.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was hyper-aware of the fact that Crowley was getting closer and closer as he turned on the TV and switched to Netflix, scrolling through for something to watch. The wine made Aziraphale’s cheeks warm, or perhaps it was the tweed jacket he still wore, or maybe it was the proximity to Crowley. 

Aziraphale stood up as Crowley browsed, shedding his coat, bow tie, and vest, hanging them carefully in the closet. His shoes followed. As he sat back down, he could feel Crowley watching him, but he made no comment.

Crowley settled on something to watch—a rom-com, Aziraphale noted—and sank deeper into the brown leather of the couch, slinging his legs over the armrest comfortably. This brought his upper body dangerously close to Aziraphale, who remained sitting stock-still, spine straight, eyes fixed studiously on the screen in front of them.

Aziraphale tried to pay attention as the movie progressed, but Crowley started fidgeting after only a few minutes, squirming around as if he were trying to get comfortable. 

Two audible _ clunk_s announced that Crowley had kicked off his shoes, socked feet now hanging over the armrest of the couch. He shifted again, bringing their arms together, and Aziraphale stiffened at the touch. Crowley shot up as if burned, swinging around to sit more normally on the couch, putting distance between them. Aziraphale frowned faintly at him.

“Sorry, Angel,” Crowley grimaced, standing up and stretching. “Can’t seem to get comfortable.” He shucked his coat and slung it over the back of the armchair, followed shortly by his loose tie. A nervous energy had suffused him, and he paced into the kitchen to find a glass of water. 

Aziraphale’s gaze followed him until he disappeared into the kitchen, hidden by the door frame. Concern furrowed his brow, but Crowley would tell him if something was wrong. They were close enough for that much, at least, surely. Right? 

The angel sighed, looking down at his immaculately manicured hands. He had hoped that the Apoca-nope would finally free them from the web of bureaucracy, that their choosing of their own side would open a new world for them and their relationship. But no, it seemed as if Aziraphale had been mistaken, had simply gotten his hopes up, put too much faith in his friend. Shame colored his cheeks darker as he thought about what a fool he’d been, pining after Crowley for so long. Eighty years. Eighty!

Crowley stood over the sink, thin fingers gripping the edge so tightly he feared he might bend the metal. What was wrong with him? What, he could play it cool for six thousand years, pretend his attraction to Aziraphale was merely platonic, and then a little almost-end-of-the-world comes around and ruins him, makes him awkward and obvious and desperate for the angel’s touch, his smile, his gaze? As if almost losing him had been too much to handle? Pathetic.

He gulped down some water and wiped his face, running his hand through his hair as he ventured out of the kitchen--directly into Aziraphale, who had apparently gotten up to come look for him. Crowley, not paying attention, was knocked off-balance, his glasses slipping down his nose. Aziraphale righted him with his hands on Crowley’s biceps, steadying the taller demon, and Crowley automatically clutched his shirt.

The two of them blinked at one another, Crowley peering over the edge of his glasses, and suddenly they were aware of the situation, their close embrace, the music playing softly from the TV. Wordlessly, Aziraphale reached up and slipped Crowley’s glasses from his face, carefully folding them and setting them on the end table. He looked back up at Crowley, his cheeks dark, eyes large and so beautiful, that holy blue staring into heretic yellow, Crowley’s irises swallowing up the whites of his eyes because he was too busy staring at Aziraphale’s mouth to concentrate on it.

Aziraphale gave a nervous little grin, pink tongue flicking out to wet his lips, and Crowley damn near discorporated, his hands sliding to grip him by his soft waist.

“Angel, I…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered in the same moment. Crowley stopped, tilted his head to indicate for Aziraphale to continue, and so he did.

“Crowley. My dear,” he murmured, raising a hand to caress his sharp cheek. Crowley trembled, his face leaning into the touch without his say-so, terrified and electric and hopeful and solemn all at once. “I...I would very much like to kiss you, I think.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, but it’s more like a breath, a prayer, released into the charged air between them like a captured moth. He leaned down as the other leaned up, sliding their lips together.

It wasn’t perfect, not at first; Aziraphale over-estimated and accidentally kissed the top edge of Crowley’s mouth, his arm getting trapped between them, but then they shifted and disentangled and came together again and oh, yes, that’s much better, that press of warm mouths, mingling breaths they don’t really need to take. Crowley made a wounded noise in his throat and Aziraphale almost pulled back, but Crowley gathered him back in, hooking his arms around his waist. Aziraphale shuffled closer, his own arms winding around Crowley’s neck, one hand tangling softly in his dark hair for more contact.

Their kiss could have lasted for only a moment, or several hazy hours, for all Crowley could think past the drumbeats in his chest. As they pulled back, their foreheads came together, resting against each other gently, and they both were smiling, unable to contain themselves.

“That was much more enjoyable than I imagined,” Aziraphale chuckled, and Crowley makes a somewhat strangled sound, pulling back enough to stare at him.

“You’ve imagined this before?” he rasped, golden eyes flicking between his lips and his eyes. Aziraphale, already flushed quite deeply, darkened another shade or two and nodded coquettishly.

“Once...or twice...or a few hundred times…” he murmured, suddenly very interested in the fabric of Crowley’s t-shirt, picking at his shoulder absentmindedly. Crowley stammered out another noise.

“You’re--ah, um. You’re not the only one,” Crowley muttered, and Aziraphale looked up, shocked.

“Crowley, don’t tease!” Aziraphale scolded, frowning. “It isn’t very nice of you.”

“Told you, I’m not nice,” Crowley said, then his grin fell away. “Wait, wait, hold on a bloody minute, you think I’m teasing?”

“Well, you must be, my dear, I’m an angel,” Aziraphale answered matter-of-factly. “We can sense love. I’d have known if you had wanted this.”

“Wha--hang on--wait--what?!” Crowley sputtered, taking a step back. There was genuine hurt in his eyes, and Aziraphale ached to have him back in his arms. “You think I don’t--I don’t love you?”

“Should I think otherwise?” Aziraphale asked, his voice so quiet and full of hope that Crowley felt something inside him break.

“_Yes, _ Angel,” he said, his face pleading. “I-I love you, I’ve loved you for so long it’s ridiculous, I thought you’d never feel for me as I do for you--I mean, how could you, I’m a demon, I’ve _ fallen-- _ but I can’t help myself, I can’t help the way I love you.” He was gesturing wildly now, pacing, trying to explain how deep his feelings went but finding words to be inefficient. “It’s been years, Angel, _ centuries, _ I’ve loved you, written poems and ballads and stories just for you. I can’t contain it. I know, you don’t, but that’s okay, I’m happy just to--to be _ something _with you, however you’ll have me—”

“How long, Crowley?” Aziraphale interrupted his rambling, stepping forward to catch him gently. He leaned up, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. “I want to—I _need_ to know. You’ve always felt the same to me, dear, ever since the first time we talked, in the garden.”

“There’s your answer, Angel,” Crowley half-smiled. “I’ve fallen more than once in this ageless existence of mine. But Falling for you in the garden...well; falling from Heaven, it shouldn’t be compared.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, and there were tears in his eyes, tears that burned Crowley’s fingertips as he wiped them away. “I love you, too, I have since--since before I admitted it to myself. Oh, my dear, it’s been _ years, _ we’ve wasted so much _ time— _”

“No time spent with you is ever wasted,” Crowley said, his voice raw but firm. “I wouldn’t change a second of it, not one moment.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale half-cried, half-laughed. “Oh, I love you, darling, kiss me again, please—”

And so he did, cupping his angelic face and bringing them back together, something strange and wonderful and glorious rising in his chest that took a long moment to identify. Hope. He barely noticed the tears on his own cheeks until Aziraphale broke away to wipe his face, still halfway crying himself.

“Couple o’ idiots, aren’t we?” Crowley asked, sniffing slightly. “Been pining after you for six thousand years and now that I’m finally getting to kiss you I’m making a mess of it.”

“Oh hush, dear,” Aziraphale chuckled, leading them both back over to the couch and sinking down onto it, pulling Crowley along with him. “There’s plenty of time to make up for it.”

“That there is,” Crowley grinned, leaning in to kiss his angel again.


End file.
